


Sing Me No Song, Read Me No Rhyme

by dance_across



Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Angst, Everyone is Bisexual, F/F, No But Literally Everyone, Oral Sex, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Post-Call of the Wild, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5422448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several years ago, Constable Maggie MacKenzie came to Chicago on the trail of the killers of her father -- and (for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture) she remained, attached as liaison with the Canadian Consulate and partnered with Detective Frannie Vecchio of the Chicago PD. She later returned to Canada on the trail of the killers of her mother, accompanied by one Detective Stella Kowalski. Now, Frannie and Stella are both back in Chicago, while Maggie has settled in Inuvik. Nobody is happy with this situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing Me No Song, Read Me No Rhyme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar/gifts).



> Azar requested a post-CotW happily-ever-after threesome fic. Azar _also_ requested a glimpse of what a character-swapped Due South might look like. I couldn't choose between the two ideas... so, oops, I did both. I hope you like it, Azar!
> 
> Title taken from "Show Me" (My Fair Lady) by Lerner & Loewe.
> 
> Thanks to FBN for the beta!

\- - -

**[a letter, sent to Francesca Vecchio, from Margaret MacKenzie]**

_My dear Francesca,_

_First, you ought to know that I miss you. It’s cold up here, and lonelier than I remember, and I find myself longing for the crowded warmth and creature comforts of city living—and for your companionship. I tried to call you at your family’s house, but while it was lovely to speak to your brother, I must confess I don’t entirely trust him to pass along the message I left for you. He also said that you’d acquired your own flat. He would not, however, give me your new number. (He told me that he did not feel comfortable giving it out without your permission; however, I suspect the real reason is that he’d like me to continue using him as a go-between.)_

_Second, I regret not having been able to spend more time with you before I left for Canada with Stella. Holloway Muldoon had crept inside my head as only a true villain ever can, as I trust you understood at the time… but I also regret not calling you when the affair was settled and Muldoon put away. I regret your having been injured, once again, for my sake—although your brother did reassure me that you’ve made a full recovery. For this, at least, I am grateful._

_He also told me that you’ve transferred to a different precinct. Do you like it?_

_Third, I don’t know if you’ve heard, yet, that Stella Kowalski, your once-double, has chosen to leave Canada and return to Chicago. I don’t know if your paths will cross. I don’t know what she will tell you about me, or about everything that happened on our quest. (We were to find the Hand of Franklin! We didn’t, of course. But we did find many other things in its stead.) I don’t know if she will resent me, or think of me affectionately, or if she will tell you any, all, or none of it. No matter what she tells you, though, please know that I continue to hold your friendship in the highest regard. Please know that._

_I hope you are faring well. Please write to me. Please visit. You know where to find me, Francesca. You always have._

_All my love,  
Maggie_

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Francesca Vecchio, by Ray Vecchio]**

_Frannie, hey! Listen, I lost your address, and Ma wants me to bring over a bunch of housewarming presents for you. Not to spoil the surprise, but it’s food. With a side-helping of guilt because you moved out. Oh, also, Maggie called for you. Bad connection, couldn’t hear everything she said. You think she’s coming back to Chicago anytime soon? Hey, I mean, it’s all good either way. Anyway, I know you’re probably busy taking down another international terrorist ring, or at least having a better arrest record than I’ll ever have in my whole damn life, but spare a second and call me back, okay?_

 

\- - -

 

**Frannie**

No matter what I told her on the phone, I didn’t come to this bar to make friends with Stella Kowalski. All that stuff I said about bonding over Maggie and bonding over Ray (our mutual ex, not my brother, obviously) and raising a glass to shared experiences? Total bull. I’m not even here because I don’t like her. Even though, you know, I _don’t_ like her. But nah, it’s not that.

I’m here because she was me.

For almost two years, while I was getting paid to be someone else, this chick was getting paid to—I dunno, to make sure it looked like someone was using my name? So there’d be a record of me being in Chicago if anyone ever got suspicious? I don’t know how it worked, especially since she doesn’t look a damn thing like me so it obviously wouldn’t hold up to any kind of scrutiny.

But then again, I’ve seen pictures of Amanda Langoustini, the lady mobster I was supposed to have been out in Vegas, and we didn’t actually look as alike as everyone around me seemed to think—and somehow I’m still alive. So what do I know about how this stuff works?

The point is, this Detective Kowalski person was me for two years, and I want to sit down and have a drink with her so I can get a better sense of what kind of rep I got now, and so here I am: at the far end of a dark-wood bar in a near-empty pub on a Tuesday night, watching as Stella walks in, looks carefully around, and doesn’t notice me right away.

I don’t blame her for that; we’ve only seen each other face to face a few times before now. And when that happened, it wasn’t like we ever actually talked. It was all Maggie blowing my cover, then Stella getting weird and jealous about me being back, then chasing that asshole Muldoon, then me getting shot (again) and Stella running off with Maggie to the Arctic and _staying there_ , which, okay, I did _not_ see coming.

To be fair—the thing with me running off with Stella’s ex? Down to _Florida_? I didn’t see that one coming either. But it’s all water under the bridge now. I’m back, and so’s she, and now she’s seen me and she’s coming over, so here goes nothing.

“Francesca,” she says in this clear, confident voice, holding out a hand for me to shake. “Good to see you.”

I give her hand a squeeze, nodding. Not smiling, really. Neither of us are smiling. 

“You too,” I say. “And hey, call me Frannie. Everyone does.”

Well, everyone except Maggie. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Frannie,” Stella repeats. My name sounds weird when she says it, maybe because she’s got this kinda snooty voice thing happening. Oh yeah, that’s right. Gold Coast. Ray told me that. (Ray my ex, not Ray my brother.) And then she adds, “Yes. I know.”

She sheds her (well-tailored, painfully drab) suit jacket, hangs it on the hook under the bar along with her purse, and takes the stool next to mine, just in time for the bartender to come over. His name is Joe. He’s quiet and Irish and has nice arms. We did a shot of Jameson together about five minutes ago.

“What can I get you?” he asks Stella.

Stella purses her lips and frowns, first at the line of draft handles, then at the bottles along the bar. Then the frown turns into something a little more complicated, and she tilts her head at Joe and goes, “What would you recommend?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know your taste.”

She looks disappointed. Or annoyed. One of those. Me, I’m just feeling impatient.

“White wine,” I say, and wait for Stella to contradict me. But she doesn’t. She just raises an eyebrow, like she’s waiting for me to continue. So I add, “Chardonnay. Right?”

Joe looks at Stella, and she nods, so he goes off to get her wine.

Stella looks at me, confused. Then, less confused. “Oh. Ray told you I like white.”

I shake my head. “Nah, just a lucky guess.”

It’s true, too. Everything about her screams _high-class lady with money who drinks white wine and also probably skipped the pot phase in college and went straight to trying cocaine_. Just like how, probably, everything about me screams _if you don’t have a halfway decent Italian red, just give me whatever your cheapest beer is_. Hence the Heineken sitting in front of me.

Joe brings her a glass of something yellowish, then wanders off to check on his other patrons. Stella sniffs it, then sips, then grimaces. “That’s awful,” she says, and drains half the glass with her next sip.

I watch her a little, this skinny blond woman who was Maggie’s partner for two years while I was out in Vegas. She swirls her wine in her glass, kinda avoids my eyes, and purses her lips like she’s thinking. She doesn’t look like a cop, even though she obviously is. She looks more like a lawyer. Or an actress. I wonder if she acted different when she was being me. Or drank different stuff. Or dressed different.

Because, see, right now she’s in some boring Hillary Clinton pantsuit thing. And me, I’ve got on this tight skirt, nice and short, with a bright pink top that doesn’t cover my stomach. It’s not actually that revealing, but it’s a whole bunch of universes away from Stella’s style.

She swirls her wine some more. Taps her manicured nails on the wood of the bar. Then, finally, she talks.

“So how’s Ray?”

I shrug, nice and easy. “Still good. Still living at home.”

“Not that Ray,” she says. “You know what I mean.”

I grin. I do know what she means. “Oh, right, _that_ guy. He’s still in Florida. He’s probably fine.”

“Probably?” Stella says, her face going kinda sly. “Meaning you’re not on speaking terms?”

“Meaning I’ve tried to call him, and he won’t pick up,” I say. “I don’t know if his lawyer told him not to, or…”

“Nah, that’s just Ray being huffy,” she says smoothly. “He’s a handful, that one. Always has been. Ever since we were kids.”

I smile. “Aw, cute.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Cute? What’s cute?”

“You, marking your territory,” I say. “I had him more recently, but you had him first. All that.”

Something goes tight around her eyes, and she clutches the stem of her wine glass. But then her face relaxes into that sly look again, and she tilts her head a little and goes, “All right. In that case, let’s talk about Maggie instead, shall we? Same conversation, but in reverse.”

My back stiffens, and I gotta stop myself from saying how that’s not the same thing at all. Partly because it’s Maggie, but partly because… well, because it’s _Maggie_. I love the hell out of Maggie, but that’s not the kind of love you can divorce yourself out of. It’s totally different. Plus there wasn’t the sex part, messing with my head, like there was with Ray.

Well, okay, maybe there was a _little_ sex stuff, and it messed with my head a _little_ , but that was only in theory. Nothing ever actually happened with Maggie and me, no matter how much I thought about it.

Still think about it, actually.

But hell if I’m gonna let Stella know about that.

“Yeah, Maggie,” I say, and take a swig of my Heineken, cool as a cucumber. “How is she, anyway?”

Stella shrugs. “She stayed up north.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, well, I figured that much, thanks. I mean how _is_ she.”

“I assume she’s fine,” Stella replies curtly.

Ah-ha. Ah- _ha_.

“Meaning,” I say slowly, “you’re not on speaking terms.”

Stella’s eyes do that tightening thing again.

“Oh, yes, she’s a handful, that Maggie,” I say, trying for an imitation of her hoity-toity accent. “She always has been. What ho.”

“Are you finished?” she asks.

“Oh, yes, yes, quite,” I say. I don’t even sound like her anymore. I sound fake-British. I sound like Monty Python or something. And apparently it’s too much, because that’s when she downs the rest of her wine and makes a move like she’s about to leave. Which means I went too far. “Hey, sorry, sorry. Stay. Didn’t mean to get snippy on you.”

She fixes me with a look. “Yes, you did.”

“Okay, fine, yeah I did. But I’m still sorry. Here, get another shitty Chardonnay. Second round’s on me.”

“I thought all the rounds were on you,” she counters. But she’s smiling a little bit now, so that’s something.

She gets Joe’s attention and orders us another round. This time, when our drinks arrive, she offers hers up, and I clink my can against her glass. It feels like starting over. Which… yeah, okay, maybe I’m ready for that. I still don’t like her, but I don’t need to be _mean_ to her.

“So, Maggie,” I say. “How was she when you left? And hey, how was the… whatever you guys were doing up there? She said something about a quest…?”

“Ah, yeah. Our very well-intentioned quest for the hand of Franklin,” she tells her wine.

“The hand of who?” I ask.

She gives me a long look, then shakes her head. “It’s not important. Well, it _is_ important, but. But it was a ruse, more than anything else. An excuse, if you will. Maggie had been homesick for a long time. And I was… I was… let’s just say that your reentrance into the picture was a bit of a surprise.”

“Ain’t _that_ the truth,” I mutter. My undercover gig was supposed to last another year, at least. 

Stella points her smile at me. This time, right before it goes sly and cynical and lawyery, like before, there’s this moment where it still looks totally real. And that’s when I realize: she’s pretty.

I don’t mean it in a good way. I mean this chick has Gold Coast money, that listen-to-me accent, and a good enough record that they brought her in to cover my ass while I was off pretending to be Antonio Langoustini’s long-lost second cousin. All that, _and_ she’s pretty.

I mean, pardon me, but Jesus freaking Christ, you know?

Luckily, I can’t think about it for too long, because soon she’s talking again: “So when all the Muldoon paperwork had been filed, I took extended leave. And we just… explored. Just us and the team. They were sweet, those dogs. Especially this one little guy. Francis. He’d try to sneak into our tent and curl up between Maggie and me…” She shakes her head a little. “Anyway. It was mostly camping, traveling, camping, traveling. We did stay a few nights with Maggie’s brother in Inuvik—”

“Whoa, wait,” I say. “She’s got a _brother_?”

Stella smirks. “Half-brother. Benton. He’d been down in Chicago a few months beforehand, looking for the guy who shot his husband, and—oh, I won’t get into it, it was this whole mess, but it turned out they have the same dad, and voilà! Maggie suddenly had family.”

That sounds like the short version of a very long story. I make a mental note to ask for details next time I try and call Maggie, but for now I just say, “Wow. That’s heavy.”

Stella nods. Purses her lips. “Nice guy, though. Very… Canadian.”

I laugh. “Canadian like Maggie’s Canadian? Lots of plaid, real outdoorsy, big blue eyes?”

She nods again. “And he’s also a Mountie.”

“Guess it runs in the family,” I say. “Guess a lot of things run in the family.”

“Oh yeah? What else?”

“Well, you said her brother had a husband, right…?”

Stella looks at me blankly, and I realize, oh shit. Stella might not know Maggie’s queer too. I just kind of figured she did, since Maggie doesn’t really hide it. But then again, she doesn’t go out of her way to talk about it, either—me, I might never have found out if not for the whole thing with Victoria Fucking Metcalf. And Stella wasn’t around for that.

So I redirect what I was about to say: “He had the husband, she had the father. They both came to Chicago to hunt down killers.”

Stella smiles mirthlessly into her wine glass. “And for reasons that don’t need exploring at this juncture, she remained…”

“Huh?”

“You know. That thing Maggie used to do.”

“What thing?”

“You know—explain why she was here. It was like she had a script or something.”

I frown, thinking back. But no, I can’t remember Maggie ever doing anything like that around me.

“Never mind,” says Stella. “Anyway, we traveled, we camped, we stayed in Inuvik for a while. And then… then I came home. And here I am.”

 _Then I came home_. Another phrase that sounds like the short version of a long story. I’m just trying to figure out how to ask for details, when this preppy blond guy comes up to the bar and sits on the stool right next to Stella.

She looks at him. Her whole body changes instantly, shoulders going back to emphasize her chest, chin lifting, head tilting. I know flirting posture when I see it. And this? This is textbook.

“Hey,” says the guy.

“Hey,” says Stella.

I don’t say anything. I just sit back and watch.

“Can I buy you a drink?” says the guy. Yeah, wow, he sure doesn’t waste any time.

Stella still has about half a glass of wine left, and she pointedly swirls it around. “Maybe. What’s your name?”

“Steve,” he says. No last name. No nothing. Just _Steve_ and that preppy blond square-jawed business-casual thing he’s got going on. I’ll be honest here: the guy looks like a Ken doll. A Ken doll who could probably bench-press a couple hundred, but still. Ken doll.

“Stella,” she says, and holds out her hand.

And, okay, here’s where it gets interesting. Because when she held out her hand to me, it was like… like vertical, right? Thumb on top, pinkie on the bottom, palm sideways and ready to meet mine. But now, with Ken Doll, her palm is down. Like she’s waiting to get her knuckles kissed or something. It grosses me out, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why.

The guy takes her hand and squeezes instead of shakes. Lightly, though, like he’s afraid of breaking her. For some reason, this seems to make her happy.

Then it clicks. The reason why I suddenly feel like I gotta take a shower. It’s because it’s the Langoustini family all over again—more specifically, it’s everything I hated about _being female_ in the Langoustini family. Antonio had plenty of women working for him. Well, a couple. More than most guys in his line of work, anyway. On paper, we had plenty of power, just like the guys. Feminism at its best, right? But you scratch the surface, and you get guys who’ll take over in a heartbeat if they think they can do better. Or if they think you can’t take care of yourself. And they always think you can’t take care of yourself because, you know, ladies are breakable, right?

It took me a damn long time to figure out how to act like I was breakable.

And here’s Stella, doing it as easy as breathing. Like it’s not costing her anything at all.

“What are you drinking, Stella?” asks Ken Doll Steve.

“Chardonnay,” she says, and then tips the rest of the glass down her throat. “Or I _was_ drinking Chardonnay. Maybe I’ll try something else next. Got any suggestions?”

Yeah, I get it now. This is the same thing she tried with Joe, the bartender. Tried to get him to tell her what to drink. Only Joe wasn’t having it.

Ken Doll, though, makes a show of looking Stella over, then taps his lip like he’s thinking. Then he says, “How about a shot of something Russian, then back to my place?”

“Well, that does sound like an offer I can’t refuse,” says Stella, in this low voice that makes my skin crawl.

And sure enough, Ken Doll orders a trio of vodka shots—one for me, which is a nice gesture, I guess—and he and Stella down them together. She stands up, grinning sloppily.

As Ken Doll heads for the door, I grab Stella’s arm. “Listen, you got my number if things get hairy with Stevie over there, right?”

“I’ll be fine,” says Stella. “Ten years as a cop, you get pretty good at spotting the crazy ones.”

I raise my eyebrows. I’ve been a cop for twelve years, and what I’ve learned is that you _can’t_ always spot the crazy ones.

“Plus,” she adds, leaning in and lowering her voice, “I carry pepper spray and a knife.”

Okay, that does make me feel better. I nod.

“Let’s definitely do this again, okay?” she says, shrugging her suit jacket on.

“Yeah, definitely,” I say, not meaning it at all.

I watch them go. Joe, who’s drifted over to my end of the bar again, watches them too. Only after the door is closed behind them does he say, “Your friend gonna be okay?”

I sigh. “No idea. She seems a little… off? Or something? Although I don’t know her that well, so it could be she’s always like this. Plus we’re not really friends.”

Joe looks at me. “I meant with that guy.”

“Oh! Ha, yeah. No, she’ll be fine. She can take care of herself. She’s a cop.”

Joe raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Wouldn’t have pegged her for a cop.”

“I know, right?”

“Hey, you gonna drink that?”

It takes me a second to realize he’s talking about my vodka. The shot Ken Doll bought me. I wrinkle my nose. “Nah, I’m more of a whiskey girl.”

“So I gathered,” says Joe. He drinks my vodka for me, then pours us another pair of Jameson shots. “This one’s on the house. Cheers.”

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Stella Kowalski, by Ray Kowalski]**

_Hey Stel. So uh. Guess you heard by now? I am now a twice-divorced man! Good for me, heh. I was, uh, gonna tell you the news myself, but I been pretty down about it, so… but like, okay. You and me, we’re still kinda buddies, right? So, just between us buddies, you should know everything’s cool with Frannie and me. She didn’t screw me over or nothing. No reason to cold-shoulder her or kick her in the head. It just didn’t work out. Me, I think I was finally having that rebound I been after since you and me split up. And Frannie, I think she just needed to get away. Any excuse, you know? Except once she was gone, all she could talk about was—and, see, this is the kicker—all she could talk about was you. You and Maggie. How she saw you working together in a team like it was always that way, like Frannie was never even there, and she felt… I dunno. Probably kinda like how I always felt when I saw you cozying up to some new guy. Heh. Heh, hey, anyway, what I mean is, you probably won’t run into her, since I got told you took her spot at the 27 and she’s over at the 15 now, but if you do, just tell her—_

**[message cuts off]**

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Stella Kowalski, by Ray Kowalski]**

_Ha, ha, hey, got cut off before. Uh. Great, now I can’t remember what I was saying. Whatever. Florida’s nice. Warm. Sunny. Lots of real interesting murders. You’d like it. Or maybe you’d hate it, I dunno. Anyway, I’m doing fine. Hope you’re doing fine, too. Uh. Talk to ya soon, I guess._

 

\- - -

 

**[a letter, sent to Stella Kowalski from Margaret MacKenzie]**

_My dear Stella,_

_I can only assume that the abruptness of your departure was because of the conversation we had on the night before you left. For this, I am more sorry than I can ever say. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable; I’d truly thought that you and I were of a similar mind with regard to the affection I expressed. I was mistaken, of course, which makes the error entirely mine._

_Were I able, I’d not hesitate to go back in time and rewrite those moments—to render myself a bit less forward. Then, perhaps, we could have proceeded as we were. As friends. I could have continued showing you the hidden beauty of my country. You could have kept talking about wanting to stay, until talk became decision and decision became action. I truly believe you would love it up here, Stella. And you already know that I would love your company. Permanently, indefinitely, or even just for a little while._

_Please come back, Stella. Come and visit me, if only so we can clear that air, if only so I can have your friendship back. I hope, more than I have reason to hope, that I haven’t destroyed the partnership we shared._

_Yours, in whatever capacity you choose,  
Maggie_

 

\- - -

 

**Stella**

Steve wasn’t the first man. Hell, Steve wasn’t even the first _Steve_. There’ve been three Steves, I think, since I got back from Canada. Two Johns. An Ahmed, a Frank, a Julio. A Tom, a Dick, and a Harry, probably. Politicians, some. Lawyers. Businessmen. Men who might have been my colleagues, had I not been infected by Ray’s zeal for police work and followed him straight into the Academy instead of going to law school as I’d planned.

I go home with these men. I have sex with them. I don’t go down on them, and I don’t give them my number, and I never spend the night.

There was almost an Ingrid, once. I almost let it happen, just to see if I could. With a woman, I mean. Just to see if I’d surprise myself by liking it after all. But just as Ingrid’s flirtations became more obvious, it hit me: I didn’t want just _some woman_. Wanting Maggie didn’t mean I suddenly wanted any woman I could get my hands on. Just like having sex with some random woman in a bar wouldn’t make me any less terrified of being with Maggie in the way that she… wanted, or didn’t want, or… whatever.

So here I am, devouring men and spitting them out and going home alone. I have no idea why, but it feels like the right thing to do. Until right now.

Tonight’s taxi ride was courtesy of John number three. It was early in the evening when we arrived at his house, and not much later when I decided to leave. And now, here I am, standing on a sidewalk two blocks away from John number three’s house, wondering why I’m not still inside. Wondering why I’m not letting him undress me, why I’m not reaching for a condom, why I’m not treating tonight like every other night of my goddamn useless life.

Wondering why I’m not drunk. Right now, I’d prefer to be drunk.

I find a pay phone. I call Frannie Vecchio. I don’t know why, but I do.

She isn’t home, which I should’ve seen coming—it’s _my_ night off, which doesn’t mean it’s also hers—so I call work and ask for her number at the 15.

She picks up on the first ring. “Vecchio.”

“It’s Kowalski,” I say. “Come out for a drink with me.”

There’s a pause. She laughs. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. Come have a drink. Same bar as before.”

It’s only been a week since the last time I saw her. She’ll remember which bar it was.

She pauses again. “Why?”

“Because,” I say, since I don’t have a real reason, other than hers is the only phone number I have on hand. Well, one of two. But I’m not calling the other one. I’m just not.

“Uh-huh,” she replies. “Well, listen. I’m not off for another two hours, and I got an early shift tomorrow, so I gotta take it easy on the booze tonight.”

“Then just come over to my place,” I tell her. “I’ll make dinner. We could watch a movie, maybe.”

A third pause, horribly long this time. That’s when I realize I probably sound desperate. Which is weird, since I’m not. I don’t know why I sound that way. Anyway, she’ll probably say no. She doesn’t even like me. She seems to think I can’t tell, but I can.

“Sure,” says Frannie, surprising the shit out of me. “Okay, sure. What’s your address?”

I tell her. Then I call a taxi and have it drop me off at the grocery store around the corner from my place, where I spend a solid ten minutes staring at vegetables and pasta and chicken breast and even frozen Weight Watchers dinners, before I give up and decide to order a pizza.

The pizza guy and Frannie arrive at the exact same time. She sidles past him, into the house, while I pay. She takes off her coat and whistles a little as she looks around. I decide not to comment on that. Yeah, I have money. Yeah, I used it to buy myself a nice place. Yeah, it looks too big now that Ray’s gone and there’s only me. Keep it to yourself, Vecchio.

I close the door and head for the kitchen, hot pizza box in both hands. Frannie follows, quiet at first. Then, as I set the box down on the counter, she says, “You’ll make dinner, huh?”

I grin at her, not really meaning it. “Yes. I made this myself. Can’t you tell?”

She starts to smile back, then seems to reconsider it. “You should’ve said something. My ma keeps sending over truckloads of food. I think it’s just so I’ll have to visit to return her pans. But I have enough lasagna in my fridge to feed an army.”

This time, when I grin, I do mean it. I remember dinners at the Vecchio place. Loud, loose, comfortable. The exact opposite of the quiet meals I grew up with. It was nice being a Vecchio for a few years. I still miss it sometimes.

No, that’s not right. I still miss it _all_ the time.

“It’s fine,” I say. “Unless you don’t like pizza.”

“You gotta be kidding,” she says, and opens the box. She doesn’t even bother asking for a plate. Just lifts a slice, folds it in half, and eats it steaming hot.

For a second, all I can do is watch her. She’s sort of magnetic, in a weird way. Pretty, yes, with those dark eyes and that perfect oval of a face—but it’s not that. It’s how at ease she is in her own body. How she walks and talks and drinks and eats her pizza like she’s so sure, in every moment, that she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

No wonder Maggie wouldn’t shut up about her.

I mean, I barely know her, and I can’t keep my eyes off her.

Eventually, she notices. Lowering the remainder of her slice, she says, “What?”

I look away quickly. “Nothing. Hey, you want a drink?”

“I told you, I gotta—”

“I mean juice. Soda, water, whatever.”

“Oh,” she says, and asks for a Coke. I get her one. We each eat another slice before it occurs to me that we might be more comfortable in the living room. Well, _I_ might be more comfortable.

So I remind her that I have a television and a bunch of tapes, and she washes her hands and takes her Coke and heads for the living room. Straight for the movie shelf, where she tilts her head and starts perusing titles.

“Aw, _The Princess Bride_ ,” she says. “That’s my favorite. And, wow, that’s a lot of Disney cartoons.”

I shrug, suddenly even more uncomfortable than before. I have a weakness for Disney movies, especially the old classics. She probably thinks I’m childish. Why did I invite her here? My house is too empty and quiet, and there are still bits of Ray lingering here and there (the _Star Wars_ movies, that weird monkey statue that somehow wound up being a bookend, the turtle that he didn’t care enough to keep), and Frannie’s used to her big, loud family, and I don’t know what to do with my hands.

“Pick whatever you want,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I head for the kitchen and get out a bottle of pinot gris. I hunt for the corkscrew, which doesn’t take too long. I pour myself a glass. I come this close to putting the bottle back in the fridge, then I think _fuck it_ and take both bottle and glass back to the living room with me.

“So what’s the verdict?” I ask, setting the bottle down on the coffee table.

Frannie turns around, but she isn’t holding a movie. She’s holding a deck of cards. Yet another thing Ray left behind and I never bothered getting rid of.

“Found it over there,” she says, gesturing to the mail table by the front door.

I glance at the table, briefly wondering what else she may have seen over there. But I don’t get interesting mail, not usually. Just bills and ads and coupons. Boring mid-thirties divorcee stuff. “Okay…”

“So?” says Frannie. “You know any games?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Plenty.”

“Any favorites?” she asks, sliding the cards easily out of their case.

“Anything but Hold’em,” I tell her. “That was Ray’s favorite.”

“Don’t remind me,” says Frannie. I stiffen, but only for half a second. She’s not one-upping me or anything. Just empathizing. Ray is a person she and I have in common, now. I have to be okay with that.

“Hey,” I say, “do you know Spit?”

Frannie frowns. “That’s the one with the pile in the middle…?”

“Two piles,” I say. “Here, I’ll show you. You mind sitting on the floor? It’s easier that way.”

She sits on the carpet, folding her legs neatly under herself, and I take the cards and begin to shuffle. I deal us each twenty-six cards, then explain how the game works. Five piles of cards in front of each player. Empty space enough for two communal piles in the middle. Players racing to rid themselves of their cards. You play until someone runs out of cards, and that person wins.

“God,” says Frannie, as we begin setting up. “I haven’t played this one since I was a little kid.”

Yeah. Disney movies and little-kid card games. That’s me. An overdressed, over-moneyed child. I eat pizza instead of cooking real food. I drink like I just turned legal. I run away when my relationships get too complicated, and I call up Frannie for company because I pretty much don’t have any friends.

“Hey. You okay?”

My head snaps up at the sound of Frannie’s voice, and I realize I kind of zoned out. “Yeah,” I say, and pause to take a sip of my pinot. I make myself smile at her. “Just thinking about how I’m about to kick your ass.”

“Oh, bring it _on_ ,” says Frannie.

So we play. The two communal piles grow until we can’t add to them anymore, and I call out, “One, two, three, _spit_!” We overturn new cards, and we keep going.

Frannie runs out of cards first. Frannie is quicker to slap her hand down on the smaller pile, claiming it. It figures. Frannie is better than I am at everything. Better at being comfortable in her own skin. Better at not screwing things up with Maggie. Better at being Francesca Vecchio, no matter how hard I tried. It just _figures_ she’d be better at Spit, too.

We play the second hand. And the third, and the fourth, and so on, until my deck is fat in my hand, and Frannie’s is so small that she doesn’t even have enough cards to complete her five piles. One last round.

By the time Frannie slaps her palm down on the empty space where the second communal pile ought to be, thereby winning the game, I feel like I’m about to cry. I don’t know why. I really don’t. It’s just a card game. But that’s the truth of it. I’m right on the verge.

I take another sip of pinot. It doesn’t help, but at least the taste is comfortable and familiar.

“Good win,” I manage to say, and Frannie looks at me.

She _looks_ at me.

Her dark eyes are shining, and her cheeks are a little flushed from the relentless pace of the game, and I was wrong, she’s not pretty. She’s beautiful. So much so that I feel it squarely in my chest.

“Thanks,” says Frannie. Her brow furrows. She’s wondering something. I can’t tell what. I reach for my wine glass again, but it’s empty. I don’t feel like refilling it. I take my next drink right out of the bottle.

“Play again?” says Frannie, her voice weirdly soft. I nod.

It’s a longer game this time, but Frannie still wins. She plays fiercely, leaning over the cards with tension radiating through her shoulders, forcing her eyebrows together as her hand moves at lightning speed. And when it’s done, her whole body relaxes in one fell swoop, and she pumps a fist into the air, going, “Ha!”

It’s such a Ray-like gesture that my breath catches for a second. I wonder what else she picked up in the handful of months she was married to him.

At least she never took his last name. At least there’s that.

“Good game,” I say. “Again.”

And that _look_ is back. Frannie, high on winning and pink with adrenaline, is looking at me with this _hunger_ that I haven’t seen since… well, since…

But I must be wrong. I must still be mad at myself for walking out on John number three earlier tonight. Or I’m missing Maggie, or Ray, or both of them. Or I’m projecting because I can’t stop thinking about Frannie being beautiful. Point is, I’m wrong, wrong, wrong.

I look away. I start gathering the cards up. I don’t think I can sit through another game.

But before I’ve even got my own deck in order, Frannie’s standing up and she’s hauling me to my feet and she’s _kissing me_.

It’s awkward at first, a graceless mash of lips on lips—but then, I register what’s happening. I register that Frannie _intended_ this, that she didn’t just fall and land on my mouth. I register that I’m enjoying it, and that her lips are soft and my heart is pounding, and my mind is going _Maggie, Maggie, Maggie_ , and Frannie’s breasts are pressing against mine as she pulls me closer, and _Maggie_ and _Ray_ and _Frannie_ and _Maggie_ , and it’s too much. It’s too much.

It’s _too much_. I pull away. I have to.

And she _lets_ me pull away. Just like Ray let me kick him out. Just like Maggie let me get on that plane. Frannie takes a step back, and she lets me have my space, and I hate her so much for it that I start to feel dizzy.

“Why… why’d you do that?” I ask.

“Guess I just wanted to.” She pauses, her lips twisting a little. “Sorry. Should have asked you first.”

 _No, you shouldn’t have_ , I want to say. But what comes out instead is, “You don’t even like me.”

She laughs. “Maggie likes you. Ray likes you. I figure that means there’s something about you worth liking.”

“There really isn’t,” I tell her, even though what I want to say is, _Kiss me again. Grab me and kiss me and don’t let me go. Just don’t let me go._

“Hey, don’t be like that,” says Frannie.

“Don’t tell me how to be,” I say.

She looks at me. Then at my bottle, still more than half full. Then back at me. “I should probably go. I have an early shift tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you said.”

She nods. Heads for the door.

“Hey, Frannie,” I say.

She turns around, and there’s something hopeful in her eyes. In the set of her mouth. I imagine kissing that mouth again. I imagine it so vividly that I can almost see my way to crossing the floor, taking her in my arms, and making it happen.

But only almost. I can’t actually move, is the thing. Not after she let me go so easily, and not while Maggie is suddenly so present in my head.

“Never mind,” I say. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” she says, opening the door. “Thanks for the pizza.”

I watch as she walks onto the porch, down the front steps, and out to her car. Only once she starts driving away do I close the door. And that’s when the letter catches my eye.

Maggie’s letter. The one that arrived two days ago, full of apologies and regret and an invitation to return to the Territories. I left it on the mail table, which is where Frannie found those cards. But it was still in its envelope the last time I saw it. Now it’s not. It’s sitting there, unfolded.

Frannie read it. Didn’t she. Frannie read my letter.

I snatch it up, reading the same words I’ve already read hundreds of times over, scouring them for any possible meaning that Frannie could’ve inferred. Was this why she kissed me? Because she knew there’d been something between Maggie and me, and because she knew it’d gone wrong?

It has to be that. It’s still not a sensible reason, but it’s not like there’s a better one.

I drop the letter where I found it, and head back to the coffee table, where my pinot is waiting for me. I slip _Beauty and the Beast_ into my VCR, rewind it to the beginning, and press Play. I let the songs wash over me, comforting in their familiarity and simplicity. I watch as Belle rejects the advances of the utterly unworthy Gaston, and eventually falls in love with the Beast. He’s a brute on the surface, both in appearance and in manner, but he’s a gentleman underneath. And it isn’t that Belle changes him, or even tries to. She _challenges_ him, until he’s recovered enough of his better nature that he can shed his brutish exterior and leave it behind.

Belle is Frannie, I think. Dark-haired and strong-willed and confident in herself. Or she is Maggie: bookish and elegant and patient. Either way, I am left to be the Beast. Except that it’s my face that’s pretty, and everything ugly about me is hidden underneath. Maggie saw it when I left Inuvik without even a full day’s warning. Frannie saw it tonight when I pushed her away.

I’m a Beast in reverse, alone in my castle of riches. That’s the truth of it.

I sip slowly from my bottle of white, until it’s gone. I turn the movie off before Belle and the Beast get their happy ending.

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Ray Kowalski, by Francesca Vecchio]**

_Ray, it’s me again. Will you stop being a baby and just call me back already? I promise this isn’t about money, if that’s what you’re scared of. I just wanna make sure you’re doing okay. Plus, Stella and I hung out a couple of times—so if you wanna know what we’ve been saying about you, you have to call back. Ha. But seriously, Ray, you’re okay, right?_

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Ray Kowalski, by Stella Kowalski]**

_Stanley Raymond Kowalski, call Francesca back or I swear I will tell her the real reason you wanted to get a turtle._

 

\- - -

 

**Frannie**

After I left Stella’s big rich-girl house last week, I figured I wasn’t going to see her again anytime soon. We didn’t fight or anything—there was just something really final about the way we said goodbye. And yet, here I am, a week later, with Ma’s lasagna heating up in the oven, a bottle of some white blend chilling in the fridge, and Stella on my couch. Because she called me a couple hours ago, asking if I felt like hanging out tonight. No reason. No explanation. No enthusiasm in her voice, even. Just a question.

Obviously, I answered yes.

I peer into the living room. She’s got her heels off and her legs crossed, and she’s flipping through all the channels I’ve got on my TV, but not like she’s paying attention. More like she wanted something to do, and the remote was the closest thing she could find. I duck back into the kitchen and get the lasagna out.

We eat together in silence, except for when she compliments Ma’s cooking and when I tell her that I like her shirt. (It’s this gray-and-purple striped thing. Elegant, but not like she’s trying too hard.) She offers to wash the dishes, and I tell her I’ll get them later. I top off her glass of wine.

And when I hand the glass back, she’s looking at me, and she’s got that face on. Her kiss-me face. I recognize it from last week, when we were playing cards. She got that kiss-me face, and so I kissed her, and there were those few seconds where she seemed really into it—and then suddenly she wasn’t.

But the face is back now. What gives?

“Stella?” I say.

She flinches, like I caught her doing something wrong. The kiss-me face fades away. She twirls her wine glass in her fingers, then takes a long drink.

Then she asks, “Do you like your job?”

I frown. “Most of the time. Undercover wasn’t the greatest, but now that I’m back…”

“Now that you’re you again, everything’s fine?” This last with a keen look at me, out of the corner of her eye.

“Something like that,” I say. “Why? Everything’s not fine for you?”

“I…” She heaves a sigh, takes another drink, and presses her body further into the corner of my couch. “I think I liked being you more than I like being me.”

I have to laugh at that one. “Oh, come on. You don’t mean that.”

“I’m pretty sure I do,” she says. “You’re… you like your job, to begin with. You just said so. You have your brother—your whole family.”

“Oh, sure,” I say. “My family, who all think women shouldn’t be cops. Except Ray, I mean, he’s fine about it. But Ma? Jesus, if she had her way, I’d’ve married rich and skipped having a job altogether. Can you even imagine?”

She gives me a tight smile. “But here you are. You’re a cop, and you’re great at it. You got the fancy undercover mob job. I got the stupid undercover job doing the same work under a different name. It was barely even undercover! Everyone knew who I was. People from my old precinct would visit me at the 27.”

All this comes out sounding real sarcastic, not at all like how she usually talks. I get the feeling, though, that it’s because she’s finally being honest. So the least I can do is be honest back.

“Hey, at least you got Maggie,” I say.

“For a little while. And then I lost her.” She shoots me a sharp look. “You read the letter she wrote me. You know it didn’t end well.”

 

**Stella**

Frannie looks stricken. For a second, I’m sure she’s about to deny having read it. But then her face smooths out. She nods. “Yeah, I got that impression.”

“So you know, then.”

There’s this long, awful pause. I’m afraid she’s gonna ask me to give her the details. Even worse, I’m afraid I’m gonna _want_ to give her the details.

But all she says is, “So you _don’t_ like the job?”

I shake my head. I take another drink. This wine’s pretty decent, for a blend. “I was going to go to law school. My parents wanted it; I wanted it; I had the grades. But no, I had to follow Stanley Call-Me-Ray Kowalski into the police academy, didn’t I.”

“Why?”

“You know, I’m still not sure.” I chuckle into my glass. It echoes a little. “But I should’ve been a lawyer. I’d’ve been good at it.”

“I bet you would,” says Frannie, and my eyes snap up to look at her, ready to see sarcasm all over her perfect little face. Only there isn’t any. She’s being serious.

“Yeah,” is all I can manage.

She studies me for a second. Then smiles. All her smiles look so _easy_. “So, hey. What did happen with you and Maggie?”

 _I want to be honest with you_ , says Maggie’s voice in my head. _You deserve nothing less_.

And Maggie _was_ honest with me. I should’ve been honest right back, instead of telling her the same lie that I’m about to tell Frannie right now. Which is: “I’m straight.”

Frannie’s eyebrows shoot up. I can tell she’s remembering kissing me. I’m remembering, too. I go on:

“She said she was interested in me. I told her I was straight. She was disappointed. I left.”

Now Frannie just looks confused. “Maggie sent you back to Chicago because you’re _straight_?”

“More like I left, and she didn’t stop me.” And she didn’t follow me, and she didn’t call. There was only that one letter. That one stupid letter, which isn’t even mine anymore, because Frannie Vecchio read it too.

I can practically see Frannie doing the math in her head. Adding what she knows about Maggie to what she knows about me to how I responded when she kissed me last week, and oh, god, I can’t even look at her anymore.

Except now she’s kissing me _again_. Leaning across the couch, holding my chin with her index finger, pressing her lips against mine. Two tiny points of contact. It’s so simple.

I melt.

Then her lips open, and it’s not simple anymore, and all those thoughts come rushing back, the same ones as last week, _too much_ , and I push her away.

“Why,” I ask, panting, “do you keep doing that?”

 

**Frannie**

I swear to God, this woman is going to drive me insane. First the kiss-me face, then the closing off, then the blatantly obvious lie about whatever went on with Maggie, then the kiss-me face again but dialed up to eleven, and then she just pushes me away.

“Maybe because I want to,” I say, not even bothering to hide how annoyed I am. “Maybe because you want me to.”

“I do not,” she says, even though her face is saying the exact opposite. “You’re just trying to prove something.”

“Oh yeah? What am I trying to prove, Miss Smarty-Pants?”

“Oh, gee, let me think. That I lied? That I’m actually gay or bi or whatever?”

“Well, aren’t you?” I say, feeling real calm. Because I’m weirdly sure of two things right now, without even knowing how. One: Stella Kowalski may be many things, but straight isn’t one of them. Two: She lied about Maggie because she wanted me to call her out.

“No,” she says. “I told you, I’m straight.”

“Come on,” I say. “First of all, nobody’s really straight. Not a hundred percent, anyway. And nobody’s a hundred percent gay, either. Especially not women. There’ve been studies.”

She rolls her eyes. “All right, so I’m only ninety-eight percent straight. So what?”

“So what really happened with you and Maggie?”

Her throat works. She sets down her glass and slips her shoes back on. “I have to leave.”

“Stella, come on. Tell me.”

“It was nothing, okay? Nothing happened. I have to go.”

“Stella—”

“It was nothing.”

And then she’s gone, my door slamming behind her before I can even get up off the couch.

 

**Stella**

I almost make it down to the car before I turn around. It’s not because I’m too drunk to drive. I’m not. My tolerance is through the roof these days. So, no, it’s not that.

It’s that I lied. About Maggie. And Maggie is too important to lie about.

I go back to the door.

 

**Frannie**

I’m just about to finish Stella’s wine when I hear the knock. In seconds, I’m at the door, ready to offer her a ride if she thinks she’s too tipsy.

But she doesn’t give me a chance to say anything. She steps over the threshold, fixes me with this crazy-intense stare, and says, “It wasn’t nothing.”

I’m about to ask what it was, but before I can, her hands are holding my face, and she’s kissing the living daylights out of me. Right there in my doorway, where anyone could walk by and see. And, _yeah_ , that is _way_ more like it.

I kiss her right back.

Our bodies press together, and her lips move hungrily over mine, sucking and even biting a little, and after a second I realize she’s kind of shaking. Crying. She’s _crying_. I kiss her fiercely, protectively, with everything I’ve got—and when I come up for air, she presses her face against my neck and whispers, “I miss her. I miss her.”

If there’s anything in the world that I understand, it’s that.

“Me too,” I tell her. “Yeah. I do, too.”

I close my door then, and we kiss some more. We finish the wine I bought, and we kiss some more. We put on the television, and we kiss some more. We kiss and we kiss, until it’s past midnight and we’re both exhausted. We crawl into my bed, both of us still in our clothes, and I hold her until she falls asleep.

 

\- - -

 

**Stella**

I’m not in love with Francesca Vecchio. She’s not my girlfriend. We aren’t dating. But I guess not every relationship can start with being childhood sweethearts or driving burning cars into Lake Michigan, and not every relationship means loving someone so hard that it’s physically painful, and nowadays I’m sleeping at Frannie’s place more often than not, so I guess that’s something.

She’s comfortable. She’s nice. I like being around her.

I still haven’t answered Maggie’s letter.

 

**Frannie**

I’m worried about Stella.

I’m worried about Maggie.

See, I know Stella’s “I told her I was straight, so we aren’t even friends anymore” story is total crap—but she won’t tell me what really happened between them, and Maggie’s pretty much impossible to reach. I sent her a letter, but the waiting is driving me nuts.

 

**Stella**

“Hey, you know what?” I say one night. “I don’t think I’m actually ninety-eight percent straight. I think it’s more like seventy-three.”

It wouldn’t be much of a joke, except for the timing: I’m on my back on Frannie’s bed, and she’s crouched between my legs, teasing me with her tongue. She knows what she’s doing, too, definitely more than any guy I’ve ever been with. Definitely more than Ray.

When she laughs, I feel it vibrating through my whole body.

 

**Frannie**

Stella isn’t my first girl, although I’m pretty sure I’m hers. There was Monica Sanchez in high school, and that girl Mary Leigh from Vegas, when I was Amanda Langoustini instead of myself. Oh, and Carly Mathers in fifth grade, but that wasn’t sex. That was just boob-comparing. Shape, size, nipple color, all that stuff. I’m pretty sure all girls do that.

Anyway, the point is, she’s not my first. Which means I’ve had some time to figure out what I like. And, boy oh boy, the look on her face when I suggest that I could maybe use my strap-on on her.

“It’s purple,” she says, staring at it.

I nod.

“It’s purple and _sparkly_.”

“Well, obviously. Why d’you think I picked it?”

She looks up at me, big-eyed and serious. “Please, for the love of all things holy, tell me Ray did not let you use that on him.”

I grin, real wide. “Don’t worry. I’ve washed it since then.”

 

**Stella**

_Dear Maggie_ , I think to myself, as I lie awake beside a lightly-snoring Frannie. _Tonight, I got fucked by a hot woman wearing a sparkly purple cock. It wasn’t the first time. It was the sixth, actually. And how are you this evening? Love, Stella._

_P.S. Yes, I said woman._

_P.P.S. Yes, I lied._

_P.P.P.S. I love you too. I’m sorry I didn’t say it in person._

It isn’t a letter I’ll actually write, obviously.

 

**Frannie**

“Ray still hasn’t called you, huh? Florida Ray, I mean, not your brother.”

I shake my head. “Should I be worried?”

“No. He’s just licking his wounds. You know Ray.”

It’s the first time she’s said anything like that without an undercurrent of jealousy, or of resentment. It makes me smile—because yeah, I do know Ray.

Stella sighs. “Well, this is what it’s come to. I _told_ him to call you, or else.”

“Or else what?”

She grins. “Allow me to tell you a story about a turtle.”

 

**Stella**

I’ll admit it: I thought Frannie would be at least a _little_ bit shocked when I told her that Ray and I used to pretend we were Donatello and April O’Neil. But maybe nothing is very shocking once you’ve been in the Mafia.

Or maybe it’s that nothing is very shocking when you’re already the sort of person who owns a sparkly purple strap-on. And nipple clamps. And that little suede flogger that I honestly didn’t think I would enjoy… but…

 

**Frannie**

The kiss-me face is easy to spot on Stella, but it takes me a lot longer to figure out her yearning-for-Maggie face. She goes kind of glazed and quiet, like she’s seeing tundra or a moose or a blizzard or whatever, even though we haven’t left Chicago.

Eventually, I get up the nerve to say something to her.

“You miss her too, huh?”

She smiles sadly, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

 

\- - -

 

**[a letter, sent to Margaret MacKenzie from Francesca Vecchio]**

_Mags!_

_Believe you me, I’d love to visit you, I really would. Freezing-your-ass-off weather and everything. And I will, eventually. Just not right now. I don’t know if you’ve ever been undercover, but it’s hard. And weird. And I’ve never ever been so happy to be back in my own city._

_I guess you probably know how that feels, huh? Coming home after years of being away? So yeah, I’ll visit you, I definitely will. I just have to be here for a while first._

_I’ve actually been seeing a lot of Stella. I like her a lot. Surprise, right? But hey, Mags, what happened with you two? She won’t say, and she seems miserable about it. Or maybe she’s just miserable in general. I can’t tell the difference. But I’m worried about her. I’d say I think she misses you even more than I do, except I don’t think that’s actually possible._

_Maybe you could come visit me instead._

_< 3 <3 <3  
F.V. _

 

\- - -

 

**Maggie**

It’s Thursday, and so I am at my brother’s door, knocking. His wolf barks somewhere inside the cabin, and I hear the faint sound of Benton’s “Just a minute!” He is probably cooking dinner. I have a small box of cookies in my hands.

We do this every week.

Stella, and Francesca before her, used to call me crazy. It’s likely they were both right. But I think most people are crazy, if you look at them in the right light. Most places, too. Inuvik is its own kind of crazy. Chicago as well. The only difference is that my crazy and Chicago’s crazy added up to something volatile. Inuvik’s crazy, though, just seems to absorb my own. There’s an undercurrent of quiet here, of common understanding, of survival. It keeps me calm.

My day-to-day life in Chicago, aside from my schedule at the Consulate, was largely unpredictable. On any given day, I might end up driving through the night in pursuit of a smuggler of expensive sex toys that had been hidden inside hollowed-out plastic dolls, or I might end up watching television on Stella’s couch. Either was just as likely as the other.

Here, though, I have routine. I have my cabin. I have my RCMP desk job, which my supervisor insists will only last until he can find someone to replace me, whereupon I will be free to patrol as I once did. And I have a standing Thursday evening dinner date with my half-brother. It’s comfortable. It’s calming. And, my evenings with Benton aside, it’s boring as hell.

The door opens, and Ben greets me with a smile, as always. I offer him the box of cookies. “Dessert,” I say.

“Thank you kindly,” he replies, and takes the box. I stomp the snow from my boots and step inside. “Dinner’s nearly ready. I’m afraid it’s nothing fancy. The same soup we had last week…”

I smile, following him into his tiny kitchen. Only my brother would open his home to another person, serve her dinner, and then apologize for it.

“Can I help?” I ask, and he sets me to cutting slices of bread. He retrieves three plates and three bowls from his cabinets; I find the butter. He ladles us each a portion of soup; I arrange our bread around two of the three plates. I carry Ben’s and my plates out to his small table, and he sets the third plate down in the corner of the kitchen, whereupon the wolf materializes from wherever he’s been hiding himself.

“Hey there, Dief,” I say, ruffling the fur between his ears. He spares me a quick whine, then goes straight for the soup bowl.

“Rude,” Ben says affectionately. “Diefenbaker, remember your manners, will you? And don’t spill it on the floor this time, or you’ll have to clean it up yourself.”

Dief doesn’t seem to be paying Ben any attention whatsoever.

He sighs, shakes his head, and joins me at the table. As I said, most people, if you look at them in a certain light, are some kind of crazy. My brother is very much not an exception.

We eat in companionable silence, underscored by the wolf’s slurping and the wind shaking the branches of the trees outside.

“Cold for this time of year,” says Ben, casting a glance toward the window as he dips a piece of bread into his broth.

I nod. “That it is.”

“Maggie. Would you mind terribly if I invited someone else to join us next Thursday?”

“Of course not. Who?”

“Well, you see…” Ben rubs idly at his eyebrow. “Ah. You see, a few months ago, I found myself in need of a new generator, and so I placed an order over the phone. When the truck arrived—”

“You’re dating the delivery guy?” I say. Interrupting is inexcusably rude, I’m aware of this, but I’ve known Ben long enough that I can easily tell the difference between the stories he tells because he likes them, and the stories he tells so he can put off getting to the important part. This is the second kind of story.

He blinks at me. “Not… exactly.”

“No?” I say.

He picks up his soup spoon, clutching it tightly between two fingers. I notice that our sweaters are a similar shade of blue. I also notice that Ben’s cheeks have gone slightly pink.

“No. Ah. It’s only that I wouldn’t describe her as a _guy_ , per se.”

I can’t hide my surprise—although, a few seconds later, it occurs to me that I _shouldn’t_ be surprised. My brother and I have a great many things in common, among them a certain disregard for choosing our partners based on their gender. Yes, Ben was de-facto-married to Casey Richmond, another man, for several years—but he seemed to enjoy it when Stella (oh, Stella) cornered him and kissed him down in Chicago. I, by the same token, still remember Victoria Metcalf (whether I want to or not) as having once been my greatest love—but I’d be lying if I said Mark Smithbauer and I weren’t intimate when we reunited in Chicago a few years ago.

“I see,” I say, once I’ve recovered myself. “What’s her name?”

Ben looks shyly down at his soup bowl, a small smile creeping across his features. “Patty,” he says. “Patty Arnaquq.”

“And how many banks has she robbed?”

Ben’s smile turns wry. “None. Can you believe it?”

That’s another thing we have in common, apparently: a weakness for a certain kind of criminal. At least I was fortunate enough never to have married Victoria—whereas Ben and Casey were as married as two men could legally be. And where I’d always known what Victoria was, right from the beginning, Ben had only found out about Casey’s true nature after his murder.

Neither of us came out of these affairs unscarred, of course. But, were I given the choice, I would never trade Ben’s history for my own.

“I call that progress,” I say, and raise my water glass in a toast.

A warm glow settles over him, and I can tell that he’s happier for having told me about his new love affair. I’m happy too. I truly am. But if I’m being honest with myself, there’s something lonely that comes with thinking of Ben as part of a couple.

Almost as if reading my mind, Ben asks, “Have you heard from Stella?”

I freeze. I never told him how I felt about Stella—but the timing of his question must mean that he knows.

“No,” I say. “I’ve been exchanging letters with Francesca—you remember, my first American partner—but no, Stella hasn’t written back to me.”

He looks at me, waiting.

I add, “It’s only been a few weeks, though. Well. Two months. And a half.”

Ben purses his lips.

I eat more soup.

We have a mostly-unspoken agreement, Ben and I. We exchange stories about our pasts. We update each other about the present using only facts. We rarely speak of feelings, and I’m still not sure whose fault that is. His or mine. But he has a certain look on his face, now. A certain unusual openness. He’s asked about Stella, and I’ve answered, and normally that would be the end of it. Now, though, it seems he wants me to go on.

“I miss her,” I tell him softly.

Ben nods. “You love her.”

“I love both of them.”

And there it is: the most intimate secret that I’ve ever kept.

Only Ben doesn’t seem to understand. “Of course you do,” he says sagely. “The love that can exist between partners is uniquely—”

“I don’t mean that,” I say softly.

His brow furrows. I see the exact moment when he begins to understand. “So when you say both, you mean… _both_.”

I nod. “Each in turn, at first. But one never replaced the other. They’re both… they’re different, and they’re… I _love_ them. I told Stella as much. That’s why she left so abruptly, I think.”

Ben is silent. Thoughtfully so.

“It was in the interest of honesty,” I clarify. “Stella and I had been… growing closer… over the course of our adventure together, and I… well, I didn’t relish the idea of starting a relationship by withholding pertinent information. But she… well…”

Ben nods again. “I see.”

“You do?”

There comes a series of sharp barks from the kitchen. Ben shakes his head.

“Diefenbaker,” he says, annoyed, “you’re not exactly in a position to give useful advice.”

I can’t help smiling at that. “What’s his advice?”

“Oh, I should hardly think it pertinent to your situation.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

Ben heaves a long-suffering sigh. “He believes that, in choosing a partner, one ought to favor the bi—er— _woman_ likely to produce the strongest litter of pups.” He raises an eyebrow. “As I said. Not pertinent to your situation.”

I try my best not to laugh. “And what’s _your_ advice?”

Ben thumbs his eyebrow again. “Well. I’m not much for advice-giving… but I can’t help wondering why you’re still all the way up here, when both of the people that you love are in Chicago.”

I stare at him.

He smiles.

“You think I should go back.”

“I think you should do what makes you happy.” Ben reaches over and puts his hand over mine. His skin is warm, his fingers rough. He’s a good man, my brother. “And you haven’t been happy here since Stella left. I’m hardly the most perceptive person in the world, but even I can see that much.”

“But…”

I don’t protest any further, though. After all, he’s right.

Ben shrugs, stands, and begins to gather our dishes. “Let’s try some of those cookies you brought, shall we?”

Normally, I’d help him with the dishes. Tonight, I’m suddenly too exhausted. Too near tears. I don’t often confide in my brother like this. I don’t often confide in _anyone_. It’s shaken me to my core.

Ben pours milk for us, to go with the cookies. There’s a single slice of cake as well, which I give to Dief. We sit on his couch. I ask him about Patty, and he answers in simple, factual sentences, as he always does. I can hear the affection in his voice, though, and in his choice of words.

Ben deserves this. Happiness in the company of another person. And as the evening wears on, I decide that I do, too. I deserve to speak to Stella again. I deserve to tell Francesca how I feel about her.

When I go home that night, I pack a bag. I call for a flight. By the next morning, I’ve taken another leave of absence from work, and I am aboard a plane, flying due south.

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Francesca Vecchio, by Ray Kowalski]**

_So I finally get up the nerve to call you, and you’re not even there? And what are you doing, siccing the Stella on me? She probably told you about the Ninja Turtles thing already, too. Or, hah, or else she didn’t and I just gave it away. Oops. Uh. Anyway. Call me back if you want._

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Francesca Vecchio, by Stella Kowalski]**

_Hey. It’s me. Sorry I flaked on you yesterday. But are we still on for tonight? I could come over…? Or we could reschedule. Whichever. Yeah. Um… bye._

 

\- - -

 

**Frannie**

When the doorbell rings, I assume it’s Stella. It could be Ray, or Ma, but usually it’s Stella these days.

I do a mental check on my kitchen supplies (I have white wine for when Stella’s here, I have red for when Ray’s here, and I have snacks aplenty for everyone, not to mention a vast assortment of pasta in the fridge), and I head for the door. I open it—and there goes my jaw, dropping right onto the floor.

“Hello,” says Maggie, shifting her weight slightly from one booted foot to the other. Maggie. I mean, _Maggie_. Blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, lips set in a solemn line, eyes even bigger and bluer than I remembered.

Maggie.

“Whoa. Yeah, hello. _Hey_.”

She looks at me, and I look back, and I’m so completely stunned that I totally forget that I should grab her and hug her because she’s _here_ so I _can_. Instead, I just stare at her like a freak.

“May I come in?” she asks with a tentative smile.

I jump back from the doorway. “Yeah! Sure, yeah, course you can! Put your bag, uh, anywhere, I guess,” I add, because she’s got this huge backpack on. Probably she’s got every single one of her possessions in there. That’s how Maggie rolls. Always has. “You want anything to drink?”

“I would appreciate a glass of water,” she says. I pour her one and put it on the coffee table, because she’s still untangling herself from the straps of her backpack.

When she finally slides it off, she places it neatly in the corner by the front door. She sheds her coat, too, and folds it, and puts it on top of her backpack. She glances at my feet—bare—then takes off her shoes as well. She’s wearing blue socks. Maggie is wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and blue socks, and she’s _here_ , in _my apartment_.

She tucks her laces into her boots, and stands up straight, and smiles at me. That’s when I pounce. I’m across the carpet in three strides, and I’m squeezing the life out of her.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” I say, as she squeezes me back, laughing softly into my ear. “Did you get a cab from the airport? You should’ve called. I would’ve picked you up. Why didn’t you call? Why are you here? Why didn’t you _say_ something?”

She pulls back, takes me by the shoulders, and doesn’t answer a single one of my questions. Instead, she simply says, “It’s good to see you, Francesca,” and good God in Heaven, she’s just the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

Well, I mean. One of the two most beautiful. There’s Stella too, these days. It’s not perfect between us, but it’s definitely something, and she—but _Maggie_ —oh my Lord—

I hug her again. It’s quieter, this time; it’s less about being more excited than I can handle, and more about two bodies learning how to breathe in the same space again, after so much time apart.

Way too much time apart.

“Francesca,” says Maggie. “You asked me a question in your last letter. I’d like to tell you the answer.”

And yeah, that’s Maggie all over. Skip the small talk, get right to the good stuff. Exactly the opposite of Stella. My stomach churns as I remember the question I asked. It was about Stella, naturally. About what happened between the two of them. Stella still hasn’t told me.

Still, I raise an eyebrow at her, because come on: “You flew all the way down here just to answer my letter?”

She nods, apparently not getting how funny this is. “I thought it best.”

Yeah, of course she did, the weirdo.

“Well, okay. Here, have a seat. Anywhere you want.” I take the armchair for myself.

Maggie perches on one corner of the couch—the same couch where I made Stella come, twice in a row, just three days ago—except nope, I’m not gonna think about that right now. Maggie. I’m thinking about Maggie.

She takes one sip from the water glass, and she opens her mouth to speak. And then she closes it again. I mean, come on, she came all this way and she can’t even say it?

All right. Up to me to get the ball rolling, I guess.

“You told Stella you loved her.”

Maggie’s head jerks up, eyes widening like she’s just seen a ghost or something. She licks her lips, then says hesitantly, “I did. Yes.”

I breathe out, long and slow. I knew that part already, obviously, but somehow it’s different actually hearing confirmation from Maggie herself. It feels like… case closed, or something. We don’t have to deal with the beginning of the story anymore, which means we can skip to the end. Whatever it was that made Stella leave. Because when someone like Maggie MacKenzie tells you she loves you, you don’t run away. You run _toward_ , and you catch her, and you keep her, because people like her are once-in-a-lifetime.

I should know. I had my once-in-a-lifetime shot already. And I gave it up when I took that mob gig. I gave it up, and Stella was next in line, and she’s the one Maggie ended up falling for. That’s just the way life goes sometimes.

Life also goes like this, I guess: Maggie’s about to tell me that she’s here to win Stella back. Maybe she even wants my help.

Not that she’ll need it—because, thing is, I’m second choice for Stella. I know that, and I’ve been okay with it ever since the beginning. And the love I’ve got for Maggie? It’s not the kind of love where you sabotage what she wants because you’re jealous. It’s the kind where you want to see her happy, no matter what.

So, yeah. If she wants my help, she’s got it.

“And then what?” I ask.

Maggie sets the water glass down. Then she picks it up again. It’s the closest I’ve ever seen her come to fidgeting. After a second, she replies, “Then I told her something else.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“I…” Maggie falters and puts down her glass again and _what_ is going on here? Her face is starting to scrunch up. It’s weird. “I made a mistake, Francesca. I… a lot of mistakes.”

My stomach’s going all funny, like it knows something I don’t. “What kind of mistakes?”

She rubs her palm on the light denim of her jeans. She looks really intently at the floor. She says, “You.”

“Me? I’m the mistake?” Yeah, I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

“No!” she says, looking up sharply. “That’s not—no. I have certain… you were my… you see, I didn’t want to be dishonest, and…”

She trails off, looking pained. That’s when I see it. Plain as day. And everything starts to make sense.

Because, see, I’m not an expert in too many things, but if I were gonna pick my top three, it would be these: shopping on a budget (ever since I was in junior high), bringing down wise guys (that’s a pretty new one), and spotting other people’s kiss-me faces.

Everyone’s got a face they make, usually not on purpose, when they want to be kissed. Monica Sanchez (that girl I fooled around with in high school) made a face like she was thinking about how to get your shirt off without you noticing. Ray (my ex, not my brother) made a face like he was the snake and you were the mongoose, only he wanted you to think the opposite. Stella (beautiful Stella) makes a face like she’s a scraped knee and she wants your mouth to be the Band-Aid.

And Maggie (as I’m discovering right now) makes a face like she’s suddenly forgotten how to use words, and she’s terrified she’ll never remember.

I gotta say, I didn’t see this part coming. Maybe I should’ve, but I really didn’t.

“Me,” I say. “Really? Me?”

She nods.

But I still can’t quite… I mean, okay. This is definitely hard to say without sounding like I’m completely full of myself, but I really have to know if I’m understanding this right. “You told her you had feelings for me, too?”

Maggie looks relieved and paralyzed, all at the same time. God, she’s even worse at talking about feelings than Stella is. But she nods. That’s an answer, at least.

No, not at least. That’s an _answer_. Feelings for me. Maggie has them. And she’s still making her kiss-me face.

So I get up, sit down next to her on the couch, and I damn well kiss her. Simple as that. She wants me to, so I do. If she wants me to stop, she can say so. But she _doesn’t_ say so. What she does is she cups one hand against the back of my neck, under my hair, and she kisses me back.

And then everything clicks into place. I sit back, pulling away from her a little. “So, wait, wait. You tell Stella you’re into her. Then you tell her you’re into _me_. Is that when she said she was straight and ran away?”

Maggie opens her mouth, like she wants to correct me or add a detail or something—but then her shoulders slump, and she nods. I can picture it, too: Stella being all into it at first, then clamming up and hightailing it out of there. It was exactly what happened to me the first time I kissed her. Only it was me who left, and there weren’t any planes involved. But still. Same idea.

“Do you think she really is straight?” says Maggie, looking pained. “Because it seemed like she was lying, but… but I haven’t heard from her. I think I must have really offended her. And you said you’ve been seeing her regularly, so…”

“Oh, Mags,” I say, patting her cheek. “Do I have stuff to tell you about Stella. Oh, do I ever.”

 

\- - -

 

**Maggie**

Once again, I am left wondering why I ever bother taking anyone’s words, even those of the people I love best in the world, at face value. There are layers upon layers of deception hidden in what Stella did. Lying to me, definitely. Lying to herself, possibly. Lying to Francesca as well—except, out of all of us, Francesca is by far the best equipped to catch such lies before they can properly take root. Which is how, as I understand it, she and Stella have ended up in a… well, Francesca insists it isn’t a proper relationship. But I can’t think of a better word for what they apparently have.

My first few hours back in Chicago were a whirlwind. I arrived here thinking that I would do my best to make peace with Stella, to endeavor to keep her as a friend even though I’d all but given up on a romantic future with her—but she wasn’t at home, so I went to see Francesca instead. Francesca, who opened my eyes to her own romantic inclinations, as well as to the fact that Stella, despite not having written back to me, apparently talks about me all the time.

I listen to the story of how they began seeing each other, as it were. I listen to only a few details about the nature of their intimacy, before I say that I don’t want to hear any more. (This does not, if I’m honest with myself, mean that I don’t wish to _know_ any more. I’d simply rather find out via a means other than Francesca’s stories….) And then I listen to Francesca insist, rather vehemently, that the fact of their relationship should not preclude me from continuing to pursue Stella.

Maybe nearly twenty-four hours of travel has made me crazier than usual, or maybe it’s simply Francesca’s unique persuasive abilities—but within minutes, I find myself agreeing with her.

Francesca is the one to suggest going to Stella’s place. I protest that I’ve already been there, and Stella isn’t home. Besides, I’m badly in need of a shower.

She raises her eyebrows and offers to scrub my back for me, but I decline. The insinuation certainly paints a tempting picture, but in light of what I’ve just learned, I’d rather be utilitarian about washing myself. I’d rather not become too intimate with Francesca, too fast—not before I’ve seen Stella.

So I shower. I towel off with one of Francesca’s floral-scented towels. I dress, and I accept her offer of a hair dryer, and then we’re off to track down Stella.

The 27th precinct hasn’t changed at all since last I saw it. The same coffee-fueled energy, the same aggressively American cop-jargon being thrown about. Many of the same faces. But there’s only one face I’m drawn to. Bright eyes. Pointed chin, prominent nose, skin clear and pale. Blond hair cut shorter since I last saw her. She’s at her desk, her right hand holding her phone to her ear. The fingers of her left hand tap impatiently upon a manila folder. There’s a crease between her eyebrows.

Months. I haven’t seen her in months. Not since she kissed my cheek, told me that she loved me like a sister, and boarded that plane. The sight of her makes my chest tighten.

Before I can pull myself together, Francesca is heading across the room. Heads turn as she does. There are a few whistles—no doubt in response to the incredibly short skirt she’s wearing—but the officers who’ve been around for at least a few years simply nod and say, “Vecchio, hey there.”

I trail behind her. I’m pretty sure a few of the men greet me as well, but my ears don’t bother to process whatever they’re saying. I’m too busy watching Stella’s face as she registers Francesca’s approach. She brightens instantly, then becomes cautious and looks around, and then brightens again, but more carefully this time.

“Frannie,” she says, “what are you doing here?”

“Oh, nothing,” says Francesca, her tone deliberately innocent. “Just thought I’d drop by. You on the phone? I can wait.”

Stella rolls her eyes; it’s so familiar a gesture that it hurts to see. “I’m on hold. Some guy who said he saw a…”

But I never find out what the guy said he saw, because that’s when Stella spots me, standing just a few feet behind Francesca. Her whole face goes slack. She hangs up the phone. She spreads one palm out on the manila folder and rises slowly, carefully, to her feet.

My first instinct, ridiculously, is to point out that she shouldn’t have hung up the phone for me. But thankfully, I catch myself before the words can come out; instead I simply raise one hand and bend my fingers at her. A silent hello.

“Oh, yeah,” says Frannie smugly, “and I brought a Mountie with me. Hope you don’t mind.”

Stella gapes. “But I didn’t… I…”

“Heyyyy, Constable MacKenzie!” says a male voice. I turn to find Detective Thomas Dewey standing not far away—far too close for my liking, in fact—and giving me the sort of smile that I’d prefer never to see on a colleague.

“Detective,” I say politely.

“What’s new? Heard you were up north for a bit. Cold up there, huh?”

“Quite,” I reply.

His smile widens. “Need someone to warm you up?”

“Shoo, puppy, shoo,” says Francesca, flicking her fingers at him.

“Offer applies to you, too,” says Dewey, apparently unfazed.

“Will you stop it?” interrupts Detective Jack Huey, as he crosses the room to step between his partner and me. “Sorry, MacKenzie. I swear, one of these days I’ll get him housebroken.”

I muster a smile for him. I’ve always liked Detective Huey.

“Call me!” says Dewey, as Huey drags him away.

“Sorry about that,” says Stella, who seems to have recovered. She’s moved out from behind her desk. She’s dressed in slacks and a blue blouse that I don’t recall having seen before; suddenly I feel quite underdressed in my red flannel.

“Don’t worry about it,” I reply.

Francesca raises an eyebrow. “Men, am I right?”

This comment coaxes a small smile out of Stella—a smile that falters only a little when her eyes flick from Francesca back to me. She pauses.

“It’s good to see you, Stella,” I say softly.

Her body goes taut, a hint of barely-suppressed movement visible in her shoulders and her hips. She licks her lips, looks at Francesca, and says, “My shift is over in half an hour.”

Francesca nods. “Meet us at your place. We’ll get a pizza.”

Stella nods. Without so much as another glance at me, she sits down at her desk again, picks up the phone, and dials it.

Francesca grasps my forearm and begins steering me away, across the bullpen and out toward the parking lot, as though she can sense my impulse to stay until Stella gives me something. A smile. A hug. Anything. My mind whirls. My stomach churns.

“She hates me,” I tell Francesca.

Francesca gives me a pitiful smile. “Nah, nobody could hate you. Well, except for when you… no, you know, never mind. But Stella, she doesn’t hate you. She was just surprised.”

We reach the car then, and Francesca opens the passenger door for me. But instead of getting in, I turn and meet her eyes. Her dark, honest, improbably perceptive eyes. “She _should_ hate me, I think.”

“Why?” she asks. “Because you told her the truth about how you felt?”

“Because I told her the truth about loving _two people at once_. That’s just not…” I wave a hand, as though the movement will help me find the appropriate word. “It’s not _normal_.”

“You’re worried about normal?” says Francesca. “You? _You_ , of all people.”

I frown. “What exactly are you trying to say, Francesca?”

“Oh, boy,” she says, and rubs the bridge of her nose. “Okay, you know, never mind. Let’s forget normal, okay? Because, look at it this way. None of us really have the normal thing going for us, right? You’re a freak; you’re into Stella and you’re into me. Stella’s a freak; she’s sleeping with me and pining over you. I’m a freak; I love Stella and I love you. So screw normal. Let’s all be freaks together.”

I swear, my heart has entirely forgotten its regular rhythm. I stare at Francesca. I stare, and eventually I find my voice again. “You… you love me.”

She reaches out and touches my chin, soft lips curving into a smile. “I’ve loved you for years, Mags. Get with the program.”

“Yes,” I say, still more than a little stunned. “Yes. Yes, all right. The program. I’ll do that.”

“And get in the car,” she adds. “We gotta get ourselves a pizza.”

 

\- - -

 

**Stella**

I’m not a religious person, but that comes pretty close to changing tonight, because it’s an actual miracle that I don’t crash the car on the way home from work.

Somehow I finish up all my calls and all my paperwork on time—and I’m pretty sure I don’t even screw anything up, although I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow. I’m going through the motions, really, trying to concentrate on speaking and writing as my mind keeps circling back around to the question of Maggie. Questions. Plural.

Why is she here?

What the hell does she expect me to say to her?

Why did she see Frannie before she came to see me?

And why’d she _bring_ Frannie when she came to see me? What was Frannie supposed to be—some kind of shield?

Or something else?

Does Frannie _know_?

Questions. A lot of them. And they’re still all swirling around in my head when I pull my car into the driveway. The door’s open; Frannie, who has my spare key, has left it unlocked for me. My hands shake as I turn the knob. I try not to notice.

There’s Frannie’s coat, hung on my coatrack. There are her shoes—the heels that she wears on her days off, not the sensible flats that she wears on duty. Beside them are Maggie’s boots. The brown leather ones. RCMP standard issue.

And there, coming out of my kitchen to stand across the living room from me, is Maggie herself. Loose jeans. Plain white T-shirt with an open-buttoned plaid shirt over it. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. No makeup, not that she needs it. In short, she looks exactly the same. Well, minus the red serge.

“Hello, Stella,” she says.

I force a smile as I shrug my jacket off. “It’s still weird to hear you call me that.”

A crease appears between her brows. “I thought—well, I can go back to calling you Francesca, if you like, but that hardly seems necessary, since you’re no longer covering for—”

“Nobody’s calling her Francesca,” interrupts the real Frannie, poking her head around Maggie. “The undercover gigs are over, you two got that? I’m Francesca. She’s Stella. No arguments.”

She disappears back into the kitchen. I hear the faint sound of liquid being poured into glasses.

“No arguments,” I mutter, kicking off my shoes. “I wasn’t arguing. I’m just saying, it’s weird.”

“You didn’t seem to think so when we were traveling together,” says Maggie, taking a step toward me, across the carpet. Then another step.

“That was different,” I say.

“How?” asks Maggie.

“That was… that was _Canada_. You and me, up there, we were Maggie and Stella. Down here, we’re Maggie and Francesca. Always were. So it’s weird to… to hear you call me that, you know, here.”

“Stella,” she says firmly. “Stella Kowalski. Stella, Stella, Stella.”

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Why do you think?” Maggie replies.

That’s when Frannie comes out of the kitchen holding three water glasses. She gives one to Maggie, then crosses the room and gives the second one to me. I clutch it. I set it down on my key table; I don't want anything distracting me right now. Maggie sets hers aside, too.

 _You came back to win me,_ I want to say. _You came back to say you’re sorry for letting me go. You came back to bring me up to Inuvik with you, for good this time_.

But maybe I’m too afraid of saying one of those things and being wrong. Or maybe I think I am wrong. Either way, what I end up saying is, “You came back for Frannie.”

“Yes, I did,” she replies solemnly. And that’s it, I want to die. Or I want to kill her. Or I want to kill Frannie. One of those.

“Get out of my house,” I tell her. “Get out of my city.”

“Stella,” she says, holding her hands out to me as Frannie, in the middle of the room, watches me in growing alarm. “I came back for you, too. For both of you.”

“Oh, right,” I say, “because, sure, you _love_ me, but I’m not enough for you, so you love her, too.”

“Whoa, whoa, tone down the bitterness, Kowalski, okay?” says Frannie. “That’s not what this is about. The being-enough stuff. It’s not that.”

“Not at all,” says Maggie, looking plenty relieved. Who can blame her? She’s got Frannie on her side. Jesus Christ, that was quick.

I wonder if they’ve kissed yet. Or more than that. How long has Maggie been down here, anyway?

“Not that, huh?” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “Then what?”

 

**Frannie**

Maggie looks like a deer in the headlights. If deer wore flannel and had long blond hair and were incredibly hot and… Point is, Stella’s looking at her like she wants to kill her, and Maggie’s just completely frozen. She’s a statue of herself, and it’s totally ridiculous, because all she has to do is _tell Stella what’s going on_.

She has to tell Stella that she’s more than enough. That she wants to be with her. That she came all the way down here to fix things between them.

But Maggie (oh, my dear, sweet, wonderful, annoying-as-all-hell Maggie) doesn’t say anything so simple. She stands there, hands clasped behind her back like she’s on sentry duty or something, and she starts talking. I mean _talking_.

“You see, Stella, over the course of our partnership, and especially over the course of the months we spent together on the Franklin quest, I came to realize that I’d grown closer to you than I had to—well—to nearly any other person I’d ever met. I’d developed feelings for you, feelings that were different than just friendship—”

(It’s taking everything I have, here, not to hide my face in my hands. We all know how falling in love works, Mags. We _all_ know that.)

“—and I wanted to express those feelings to you. You’ll recall that I did exactly that, largely because of my brother’s advice.”

(Stella’s standing there, even more of a statue than Maggie is, except she looks murderous. Or like she’s trying to melt into the floor. If Maggie weren’t here, I’d take her in my arms and kiss her till she relaxed. Till she was herself again.)

“However,” Maggie continues, “I felt that it would be dishonest of me to withhold the fact of my having developed similar feelings for Francesca. You see, I’d largely managed to set aside those feelings, due to the precarious nature of our relationship resulting from her reassignment to—”

“I know,” says Stella. She’s real quiet, but it’s enough to shut Maggie right up. “I know all that. You loved her first, then you loved me, then she came back, so you don’t need me anymore. You get to choose, right?”

“Stella, I—”

“If you love two people, you _have_ to choose one,” says Stella, eerily calm. “That’s just how it goes. And I knew it wasn’t going to be me, okay? It was going to be her. It was always going to be her. So I got out before you could—so I didn’t have to see it when—”

This time, the urge to hold Stella totally overwhelms me, and I don’t fight it. I go over to her and I wrap her in a hug. Because I get it. I really do. If anyone understands what it’s like to watch Maggie be in love with someone else, it’s me.

“Hey,” I say, as she breathes shallow against my neck. I rub her back. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

She lets me hug her for a few seconds, then wriggles away. She strides over to the armchair in front of the television, and she sits in it, like a queen on her throne.

“No,” she says, wiping carefully at each of her lower eyelids in turn. There’s no mascara there, but I’m real familiar with that impulse. “It’s not okay. I had to get out before she could pick you over me _while I was still there_. And she didn’t follow me. Which means I was right. Doesn’t it.”

 

**Maggie**

I had no idea Stella thought that I would ever choose Francesca over her.

I had no idea Stella thought that I would ever be capable of choosing between them at _all_.

They are the two most incredible people I’ve ever known. I had no _idea_ ….

“Stella,” I say, crossing the room to stand before her. She covers her face with her hands. I kneel down on her carpet, bracing one hand against her knee. She doesn’t push me away. “Stella, you can’t honestly believe that—”

“Jesus H. Christ, will you stop _talking_?” says Francesca, from directly above me. There’s something in her voice that makes me obey. I stop. Francesca adds, “She can’t hear you.”

I look up at her, puzzled. “What do you mean? Of course she can.”

“No, no, I mean she can _hear_ you, but she’s not _hearing_ you.” Francesca demonstrates, with broad gestures, that these are two vastly different things. “You see what I mean?”

“Shut up,” mutters Stella, through her fingers.

“You want her to believe you, you gotta _show_ her what you mean,” Francesca continues. “’Cause right now, seems like you’re just telling her the same thing over and over, and it’s not sinking in.”

“Shut _up_ ,” says Stella. “I’m right _here_. Stop talking about me like I’m not right here.”

“No, you’re not,” says Francesca firmly, bumping her bare toe against Stella’s socked foot. “If you were right here, you’d be listening to what Maggie’s saying, and you’d be believing it. But you’re off in your own little world where nobody’s allowed to love more than one person at the same time.”

This seems almost cruel somehow—but it makes Stella sit up a little straighter. It makes her slide her hands down her face, so that her eyes are showing. They’re swimming with unshed tears, but they’re showing.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. Francesca’s hand. Followed by her voice. “Mags, okay, here’s what you gotta do. You’re gonna stand up, and you’re gonna make Kowalski stand up too, and instead of telling her how much you love her, you’re gonna kiss her. You’re gonna kiss the living _shit_ out of her, and you’re gonna do it till she understands you. Got it?”

I have no choice but to comply. Or rather, I have no desire but to comply. I stand up. And, just when I’m wondering how I’m supposed to _make_ Stella stand up too, she tentatively reaches out a hand. I grasp it and pull her to her feet. She looks down at the floor, as if unwilling to admit the part she’s just played in whatever is about to happen.

“Stella,” I say, brushing my fingers against her cheek. She hesitates, and then, with a sigh that seems almost involuntary, she leans into my touch.

I angle her face up, and I kiss her. I kiss her just as Francesca told me to, putting everything I’ve ever felt for Stella into the movement of my lips, the tilt of my head, the firmness of my hands against her back. I hold her like I never want to let her go, and it’s the truest thing I’ve ever done.

The floor creaks as Francesca moves away from me, and when I hear her voice again, it comes from behind Stella. “Good,” she says. “Good.”

Stella moans quietly into my mouth, and I wonder if Francesca is touching her. Holding her, or kissing her, or maybe both.

I hope that it’s both.

Eventually, Stella’s rigidity melts away, and she lets me hold her like I held her up north. Before we thought about the future. Before I decided to be honest. Back when it was just the two of us in a tent, growing closer and closer until there was no space between us at all.

 

**Frannie**

My hands hold Stella’s hips. My lips brush the back of her neck, the top of her spine, the curve of her hairline, the sensitive spot behind her left ear—all the little places I kiss her whenever we spend the night together. I’m the big spoon, see. These are the places you get to know when you’re the big spoon.

Stella, meanwhile, is about five percent focused on me, and ninety-five percent focused on Maggie. And that’s okay. That’s how it should be. Maggie’s the one who’s trying to prove herself today. Not me. I’ve already proven myself to Stella in every way I know how.

Well, every way except one. Because the thing is, Stella’s not wrong about the choosing thing. Me personally, I’d rather have two lovers than one—and I think Maggie might just agree with me. But I know not everyone’s built that way. Stella maybe isn’t, which means if anyone’s gonna be choosing, it’s her. And her choice isn’t gonna be me.

Unless we can make her see that she doesn’t have to choose at all.

So I kiss Stella’s neck, and I listen to Maggie murmur Stella’s name over and over, and I put my hands wherever I think they’re needed.

Then I hear Maggie’s voice: “Stella, Stella. Are you crying?”

 

**Stella**

Well, of course I’m crying. I’ve got the woman I love pressed up against my front, kissing me like her life depends on it. I’ve got the woman I’m sleeping with pressed against my back, holding me steady with her hands on my hips, and suddenly I’m wondering if I love her, too. Because I clearly wasn’t already confused _enough_ about whatever was going on with Frannie and me.

But here they are, Maggie and Frannie, bookending me. I’m surrounded, and I can barely breathe, and it’s so much, it’s _too_ much, and _obviously_ I’m crying.

“Stop, stop,” I find myself saying, into Maggie’s lips. Frannie goes still behind me, and Maggie pulls away, and god, I wish she wouldn’t. I wanted stillness, not distance.

I breathe for a second, then I open my eyes. She’s still there, only now there’s maybe a foot of space between us. I want to kiss her again. I want her back where she was, with her hands in my hair and her tongue forcing its way into my mouth, only I just told her to stop, and it’s not like I can keep telling her to stop and then go again, stop and go, stop and go, just because I can’t keep up with everything my head is doing. God, I’m a mess.

But it turns out that I don’t have to tell her anything. Because Frannie, hands still resting lightly on my hips, says, “Stop means take a breather, Mags. Stop doesn’t mean stop forever. Right, Stel?”

My heart seems to expand in my chest. My eyes well up all over again. Until this moment, I didn’t realize quite how much attention Frannie was paying me. Enough attention that she can translate for me, even when I haven’t said anything.

“May I kiss you again, Stella?” asks Maggie, and I realize I haven’t answered Frannie.

I nod. Maggie comes toward me again, takes my face in her hands, and I lose myself again in her lips on my mouth, on my cheeks, on my neck…

“Throat,” suggests Frannie, and Maggie obeys immediately. Pressing her lips to my throat, just above my clavicle. Letting them linger there.

I squirm. Frannie _knows_ that’s one of my favorite places to be kissed—and now, Maggie knows it too—because Frannie _told_ her—because Frannie is _telling her what to do_ —

“Earlobe,” says Frannie next, and oh, lord, this is how it’s going to be, isn’t it? Heat blossoms in my belly; I can feel wetness between my legs.

Maggie catches my earlobe in her teeth. A horrifyingly embarrassing sound escapes me. Behind me, Frannie laughs softly, presses her lips to my shoulder, and says, “Good, right?”

Maggie’s mouth leaves my ear, and she makes a small noise of assent—and then she’s rearranging us, pulling Frannie out from behind me so _they_ can kiss, and no no no, I can’t watch, this is everything I was afraid of…

Except… it’s nice. It’s lovely, actually. Maggie’s pale face against Frannie’s olive one, lips moving, eyes closing—and Maggie’s still got one hand on my cheek. Frannie’s still got one hand on the small of my back. It’s the two of them right now, but I’m still part of it, and before long they’re both looking back at me. I can see the heat in Maggie’s eyes, but it’s Frannie who says what we’re all thinking:

“Upstairs?”

 

**Maggie**

It’s happening so fast. My stepping into Stella’s house for the first time in months. Francesca slipping our takeaway pizza into the oven for later. Stella coming home. And now, what feels like mere seconds later, the three of us in Stella’s room. Somehow, shirts have come off. Francesca made quick work of my jeans, and then Stella’s expensive-looking slacks, and her own short skirt—and under different circumstances it might be awkward, the three of us in nothing but our underwear, but it’s not. Oh, it’s not.

I’ve seen them both in various states of undress over the years; it’s inevitable, I think, after a partnership has reached a certain level of closeness. I’ve seen Francesca’s collection of multicolored lace bras and silk panties. I’ve seen Stella’s utilitarian underwear, well-made pieces in white and nude and black. And goodness knows what they must think of mine—old, worn, much of it resewn along the seams. But in such a context as this, the little swathes of fabric matter so much less than the way they move with the bodies that are wearing them.

The way Francesca’s pink underwear stretches taut as she leans against Stella’s headboard and opens her legs, inviting Stella to come join her. The way Stella’s black bra goes slack as Francesca undoes the clasp in the back.

Francesca pulls Stella against her, Stella’s back to her chest. They both look up at me, Stella’s eyes terrified and excited, Francesca’s brimming with mischief and… lust?

Lord, she’s beautiful. They both are.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” I say.

Francesca grins.

 

**Frannie**

Like she really needs me to _tell_ her. Like she doesn’t already know what the game is, here. This is when we, Maggie and me, have gotta make Stella feel exactly how much we both want her.

So no, I don’t need to tell her what to do. But Maggie, well, sometimes she’s no good at acting without orders unless there’s a killer getting away or something. And Stella sure as hell isn’t gonna say what she wants; if anything, she’ll mean one thing and the exact opposite’ll come out. That’s Stella for you. Which means it’s up to me.

Holding Stella flush against me, my hands splayed one against her belly and one against her chest, I beckon Maggie closer. She joins us on the bed, then knees her way toward us, but gets all hesitant when she reaches Stella’s feet.

“Not gonna be able to reach from there,” I tease. I feel Stella’s breath catch.

Maggie comes a little closer, but real tentative. I swear, the woman’s like a wild animal when you put her anywhere near human feelings.

Although… she did fly all the way down here. So maybe I’m wrong about that.

I point at Stella’s plain black cotton panties. “Take those off,” I tell Maggie.

Maggie licks her lips. Stella’s breath goes shallow, and she presses back against me. I hold her steady, kissing that little spot just behind her left ear, and we both watch as Maggie removes the only remaining article of Stella’s clothing, leaving her completely bare.

Maggie looks at her for a long, long time. Stella squirms.

“Tongue,” I say. Stella whimpers. Oh yeah. Here we go.

 

**Stella**

First there’s just air, slightly too cold, as Maggie coaxes my knees apart—as I _let_ her coax my knees apart. Then Maggie’s head dips, and then I feel her breath on me, and I almost tell her to stop again. Almost. But Frannie’s hands steady me. One on my chest, one on my stomach. They remind me to breathe.

Which is good.

Because then Maggie starts _licking_.

 

**Maggie**

“Faster,” says Francesca, watching me with a keen and experienced eye. I move faster; Francesca hasn’t yet steered me wrong.

Stella begins to shake underneath me.

“No, slower, just a _teeny_ bit slower,” adds Francesca. Stella murmurs a sound of assent, and Francesca adds, “And a bit to the left?”

I move left. Stella gasps. Oh, yes. There it is.

I glance up one more time; one of Francesca’s hands has taken hold of Stella’s nipple, pale pink and erect, and is rolling it gently between two fingers. Stella’s eyes are closed, her head tipped back against Francesca’s shoulder.

Ben was right. What in the world was I doing in Inuvik, when _this_ was waiting for me in Chicago?

I bury my nose in the musky thatch of hair between Stella’s legs, and I put my tongue to work. I want to hear her gasp again.

 

**Frannie**

“Finger,” I tell Maggie. “No, just one. For now.”

I feel Stella buck against me as Maggie slips a finger inside her. “Now crook it, just a little. No, a little more…”

I was right. Maggie’s damn good at following directions.

“Now ease up,” I tell her, as Stella starts quaking. “Aaaand faster again in three… two… _go_!”

Because, thing is, you sleep with someone enough times, you learn what gets them, and you learn quick.

Hmm. Maybe that’s the fourth thing I’m an expert in.

“I got you, Stel,” I say, squeezing her tight as she cries out. “I got you. We both got you.”

 

**Stella**

Jesus Christ.

Jesus Fucking _Christ_ , I can’t—

I have to—

 

**Maggie**

Stella calls my name as she reaches orgasm. She calls my name twice.

And then, as her breathing begins to slow and I slip my finger back out of her, she says, quietly, “Frannie…”

This is, I think, exactly as it ought to be.

“Right here, sweetie,” says Francesca, her hand sweeping through Stella’s blond hair. Then her eyes fix on me. Or rather, on my hand. “Gimme a taste?”

Does she mean—? Yes, actually, I think she does.

I put my index finger, the one that was just inside Stella, to Francesca’s lips. She swallows it whole, and she gives me a smile that seems to say, _Mission accomplished_.

 

**Frannie**

Stella curls into me, and we arrange ourselves like we do on most nights. Me, her. Big spoon, little spoon. I hold out a hand to Maggie, inviting her to join us—but she doesn’t. She gets up and she leaves the room and, oh crap, did something go wrong? Here I was, thinking this was the best night of my damn life, but—

Nope. She’s back. Maggie’s back, and she’s holding a water glass. I smile and give her a nod.

“Stella?” says Maggie. “Here you go.”

Stella tilts her head up and gulps down half the glass, then flops back down, totally spent. I laugh at her; she elbows me in the stomach. Business as usual.

And yeah, maybe I had some ideas about what was gonna happen next. Maybe Stella getting me off, maybe me getting Maggie off, maybe seeing if Mags is as into the strap-on thing as Stel is… but Stella’s _zonked_. I mean out like a light.

I hold out my hand, and this time Maggie climbs into bed with us, curling her body carefully against Stella’s front.

“Look at us,” I say, stroking Stella’s hair. “Prettiest pile of ladies you ever did see.”

Maggie chuckles softly. Stella’s already asleep.

 

\- - -

 

**Stella**

I doze for a bit. I can’t help it. This morning, I had no idea when I’d ever see Maggie again—and now…

When I wake up, probably only a few minutes later, Frannie’s still holding me—but she and Maggie are leaning over me, kissing each other quietly, right above my shoulder. And it’s pretty—they’re still _so pretty_ together—but as I watch them, that old feeling of dread settles in my gut.

Because as amazing as this was, it hasn’t actually fixed anything.

I stretch, just enough to let them know I’m awake. Immediately the kissing stops, and I’ve got two pairs of eyes looking down at me. Four spotlights. I kind of want to hide. But then Maggie drops her head and kisses my collarbone, and I don’t hide. I don’t.

“You,” I tell her, “have a very talented tongue.”

Maggie laughs. “All the better to taste you with, my dear.”

“Did you just make a _joke_?” demands Frannie. “Like an actual good old-fashioned American _joke_?”

“Well, it’s hardly an American reference,” says Maggie, her voice going immediately serious. “I think you’ll find that the tale of Little Red—”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” says Frannie, rolling her eyes. “Don’t get all lecturey on me.”

Maggie’s face softens. It’s not quite a smile. It’s close, though. Quiet falls again.

“This won’t work,” I say softly.

 

**Maggie**

My heart twists. This is Inuvik all over again. Stella is going to leave again. I’m not ready.

Only this time, she can’t protest that she’s straight, can she? And she can’t tell me it’s because she thinks I’ll choose Francesca, because she’s _seen_ , hasn’t she? I’ve shown her that I love her, that I want to be with her and make her feel good and bring her water afterwards.

“Why not?” I ask, not even bothering to care when my voice comes out plaintive.

“Because,” she says, and sits up. She finds her underwear—the pair I cast aside before I began to taste her—and puts it back on. “Because it _can’t_.”

“Yeah, okay, but _why not_?” says Francesca.

“ _Because_ ,” says Stella, making an aggravated gesture with one hand. “People don’t just go around, you know, _doing_ stuff like this. People pair off. That’s how the world works. And just because you two decided to team up and… and…”

“And give you the best Big O you’ve ever had in your life?” Francesca finishes with a grin. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bedcovers now, so I do the same. 

Stella’s cheeks go pink. “It doesn’t mean we can all… you know…”

“Date each other?” says Francesca. “Sleep with each other? Get each other off? Do stuff like _this_?”

She grabs me by the neck and pulls me roughly toward her, capturing my mouth in a kiss—only to let me go a moment later and do the same thing to Stella.

“I, uh,” says Stella, once Francesca has made her point. “It’s not….”

“It’s not what?” I say softly.

“Legally!” she says. “How would it work legally? If we were to continue this?”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t put the cart before the horse, as it were,” I say.

“Yeah, seriously,” says Francesca. “We’ve been in a triad for, what, a few hours? Obligatory lesbian jokes aside, let’s give it a little while before we start talking legal stuff.”

“Triad,” I murmur. “Is that the word for it?”

Francesca ducks her head. “I’ve… read some articles online….”

“But what if it doesn’t work out?” says Stella.

“What if it _does_?” I counter.

Stella falls silent.

 

**Frannie**

And, okay, here’s the thing about Stella. Maggie, too. There comes a point where you just have to spell it out for them. Maggie’s all but said that she wants to keep both of us, and Stella’s main problem seems to be, like, marriage or something—which, okay, don’t get me wrong here, I’m _all about_ marriage. Poofy dresses, big wedding, open bar… but marriage isn’t the endgame.

The endgame is not letting anything at all stop you from loving whoever you love.

“Look, Stel,” I say. “Do you wanna be with me?”

She looks stricken. “Well, yes—”

“And do you wanna be with Maggie?”

“ _Yes_. That’s the whole—”

“Mags, you wanna be with me?”

“Yes,” she says simply, a smile curling at her lips. She’s heard this speech from me before.

“And you wanna be with Stella?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Good answers. Now somebody ask me.”

“Francesca,” says Maggie, “do you want to be with me?”

“Damn right I do,” I reply.

“And… with me, too?” asks Stella.

“You bet,” I say. “And you see? It’s easy as that. As long as those six answers keep being true, we’re gonna be just fine.”

That, finally, makes the worried creases in Stella’s brow begin to fade. “So… I’ll ask you again tomorrow.”

“And the next day,” adds Maggie.

“And, as long as we get that far, the day after that.” I smile. “Think we’ll make it till then?”

Stella’s straight-up smiling now. She hesitates, but only for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, I think we just might.”

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Ray Vecchio, by Francesca Vecchio]**

_Hey, Ray, it’s Frannie. You still coming over tonight? Just wanted to let you know—and don’t get your knickers in a twist or anything—Maggie’s gonna be here. She’s actually staying with me for a bit. Helping me pack up a little. And Stella might drop in. Or might not. She’s busy with all that law-school-application stuff. Hey, but speaking of packing, you got any boxes lying around? Bring ’em if you got ’em. Can’t get started too early on this stuff, and my next day off isn’t for another week. Sheesh. Anyway, yeah. See ya soon!_

 

\- - -

 

**[a message, left on the answering machine of Stella Kowalski, by Ray Kowalski]**

_Heyyyy Stella. Listen, hey, this was a mistake, right, but some of your mail got forwarded to me. Who even knows why. Actually, are you still getting my bank statements? Stupid post office. I’ll call them tomorrow. Unless you feel like doing it. Heh. Anyway, look, I didn’t realize this thing wasn’t for me, so I opened it. And it says your application was received? To the University of Chicago? Law school? I mean, I didn’t think you were into that anymore—like not since high school—but hey, listen, good for you, all right? Good for you. So… yeah. I’ll just pop this in the mail. Gimme a call whenever. If you want. And oh, hey, you ever run into Frannie? Whatever, probably not. But if you do, tell her I said hey._

 

\- - -

 

**[a letter, sent to Benton Fraser from Margaret MacKenzie]**

_My dear Ben,_

_You were right. I should have known you would be right. I’ll explain the situation in greater detail when next we speak on the phone, but for now, suffice to say: I’m staying in Chicago for the foreseeable future. I’m splitting my time between Stella’s house and Francesca’s apartment, until such time as Francesca’s lease expires, whereupon we will all live with Stella. Her house is quite large, and as such should afford us all the space we need. This is my hope, in any case._

_Stella sends her regards, by the way. As does Francesca. You haven’t met her, but I’m sure you’d like her. She’s a kind person. They both are._

_I intend to continue my work as liaison with the Chicago Police Department—and Francesca will be my partner. Why not Stella, you ask? Well, in an interesting turn of events, Stella has decided to apply to law school. She wishes to practice family law, with a focus on non-traditional families. She is worried that it’s a decade too late, but better late than never, I say. Francesca agrees._

_How are you, Ben? How is Patty? Please visit us in Chicago! You’re welcome anytime._

_Love,  
Maggie_


End file.
